


Dewey-Eyed

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Librarians Know All, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:42:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3352001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“We have </i>another<i> body in the library.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dewey-Eyed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lindenharp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/gifts).



> For Lindenharp on the occasion of her birthday - many happy returns, and I hope you like this!
> 
> With very many thanks and sincere appreciation to Divingforstones for outstandingly helpful and supportive BRing.

“...and then you just have to remember to _save_ , sir—” James’s hand moves the mouse over the desk surface as he suits action to words. “—and that’s all there is to it, really. Think you can manage it now?”

“Ahh...” Robbie drags his attention from James’s long fingers where they’re curved over his mouse and turns his focus back to the screen. “Yeah. Makes sense. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” James flashes him a smile as he pushes his chair backwards, preparatory to moving back to his own desk.

 _Christ_. He’s going to have to stop this. Get those ridiculous ideas he’s been having lately about James Hathaway out of his head — or else avoid any contact with the bloke outside work. No, even that won’t be enough; he’ll have to drag James kicking and screaming through OSPRE so he can be promoted and no longer be under Robbie’s supervision.

Trouble is, he’d rather be dragging the man — kicking, screaming or otherwise — in other directions entirely.

It’s ludicrous. Here he is, middle-aged and heading for retirement, married to the best woman in existence for more than twenty-five years, and he thought he was well past all that. Yet these days it seems he only has to catch sight of James’s long, slender fingers to imagine them trailing over his skin. He just has to see James smile to want that smile aimed at him and only him. And he only has to notice those strong, taut muscles moving under James’s too-tight shirt for his thoughts to start wandering in directions that certainly don’t belong in the nick. They’re not exactly the most convenient thoughts to have in his flat, either; not with James sitting beside him, shoulder pressed against his, as they sip beer and watch telly together.

He’s always been aware, in an abstract sense, that James is an attractive bloke. Couldn’t exactly not be, not with Laura calling him _dishy_ every chance she got. But awareness and noticing are two very different things, and lately he’s been _noticing_. Whether it’s some sort of mid-life sexuality crisis, or — what? has he been attracted to blokes as well as women all along and never realised it before? Whatever it is, it’s bloody inconvenient, that’s what it is.

He’d understand it if it were Laura doing this to him; that would make sense. But, though they’d tried, the spark just wasn’t there between the two of them. James had given him a good old shove a few months back, around the time the bloke had dragged him to the dentist to sort out that dodgy tooth, and Robbie’d actually taken his head out of his arse long enough to ask Laura out on a proper date. It had only taken them a couple of weeks to realise it was going nowhere.

Instead, it’s his bloody smartarse of a sergeant — a young, fit, _male_ sergeant — who’s awakening the kind of reactions he thought he was past feeling. Even now James is back at his own desk, Robbie can’t seem to refocus on his own work. His gaze, with or without his permission, keeps glancing over to land on the bloke’s broad shoulders and arms, flexing and moving as he flicks through files and makes notes on his computer screen.

It’s a relief when James’s mobile rings, causing a distraction of a different kind. And, of course, giving Robbie a legitimate reason to look over at his bagman.  
“Hathaway.”

There’s a pause while James listens, and then he pulls over a scrap of paper and scribbles something. “Got it. On our way.”

“Callout?” Bugger. He’d been just about to suggest an end-of-day pint.

James swivels around, and there’s a gleeful smile on his face. “You’ll never guess, sir.”

Robbie rolls his eyes. “Go on, then.”

“We have _another_ body in the library.”

* * *

It’s not the Bodleian this time, but the city’s central public library, in the Westgate Centre. It’s already closed to the public by the time he and James get there, a police guard posted outside. The staff, visibly shocked and upset, are kept together at the reading tables just inside.

The body was found a short while after the library closed for the day. A library assistant, James told him on the way over, found dead among the shelves in the non-fiction section. 

James touches his arm to steer him in the right direction, and Robbie has to force himself to show no visible reaction. When had all this started, anyway? When had he stopped seeing James as just a clever, smartarse sergeant and a good mate, and started recognising him as someone to... Christ, to _lust_ over?

Inappropriate, too. Not only because this is a crime scene and some poor sod’s been murdered, but also because James is his subordinate. Christ. _Pull yourself together, man!_

The library assistant, a middle-aged man by the name of Roger Caldwell, has been hit on the head, Laura tells them. Bashed would be more accurate, from what Robbie’s seeing; bashed repeatedly, in fact, and several of the blows occurred after death. A frenzied attack, as the media loves to portray these kind of things — but there’s a lot that’s odd about it, not least the murder weapon. Laura can’t determine what it might be from her on-site examination, and the injuries don’t correspond to the typical weapons.

The strangest, though, is the fact that, from what the uniforms who were first on the scene have told them, no-one seems to have seen or heard anything. “Completely bizarre,” James comments softly while they’re still crouched over Caldwell’s body, lying face-down where he fell after being struck. “Shortly before closing time, all staff and some users still on the premises, and no-one heard anything unusual? If someone was bashing me over the head, you can bet I’d be shouting and kicking and making a fuss.”

“Roger was speech-impaired.” Robbie glances up; there’s a grey-haired woman wearing an ID tag that reads _Lorna Williams, Librarian_. “I’m in charge here,” Lorna explains, and introduces herself, her voice steady despite the obvious shock on her face. “Roger could speak, but with great difficulty, and if he was under stress it was even harder for him. I could imagine him not being able to get even sounds out if he was being attacked.” 

“Wouldn’t he have struggled, though?” Robbie asks, standing. “DI Lewis, by the way, and this is DS Hathaway.”

“He might have tried to. But, you see, he had Parkinson’s. It was getting worse, to the point of affecting his speech and movement. He was already considering ill-health retirement. If whoever did this was looking for an easy target, he had it in Roger.”

Laura glances up. “That’s rough. And, yes, Parkinson’s could certainly explain his inability to defend himself, Robbie.”

He nods his thanks at Laura and turns back to the librarian. “We’ll need to interview everyone before we can let people go home. All right?” At her nod of agreement, James goes off to organise the uniformed constables to start interviews.

He’s bending to take a closer look at the wounds on the back of Caldwell’s head when he notices something out of place — a book wedged on top of a row of neatly-shelved hardbacks. As he leans in closer, what he sees makes him reach for it very carefully, ensuring that even with gloves he doesn’t smudge what he sees on the surface. It’s a surprisingly heavy hardback book, which could do a lot of damage if wielded with significant force.

“Blood?” Laura asks quietly, reaching to take the book from him. It is, and the book’s edges are damaged. He’d bet his pension that’s the murder weapon.

“That’s what he was killed with?” Lorna asks, sounding horrified, and Robbie grimaces inwardly. James should have taken her back to the seating area to stay with the rest of the staff — but he probably thought Robbie still needed her for something.

He’s about to ask her to go when Laura calls his name again. She’s in the process of turning Caldwell’s body over to continue her examination, and there’s something clutched in the man’s hand. 

Another bloody book. 

It’s a paperback this time, and Laura gently disentangles it from Caldwell’s grip and hands it to Robbie. It might not be important at all, but the man was holding it pretty firmly when he was attacked, so as far as Robbie’s concerned it’s evidence.

“Inspector?” 

He glances up to see Lorna’s anxious expression. He’s about to direct her back to the other staff when he notices her gaze fixed on the book in his hand. “Yes?”

“Can I see?” She’s holding out a hand.

“Sorry, Ms Williams.” It’s James, who’s come silently up behind him. And bugger it, now just the sound of the bloke’s voice is practically sending a shiver through Robbie. At a bloody crime scene, too. This has got to stop. “It’s evidence, so we have to make sure it’s preserved.”

“I don’t need to touch it. It’s just... something’s not right.”

Robbie beckons her closer, looking down at the book at the same time. It’s about astrology — _The Science of Astrology_ , he reads. 

“I thought so!” Lorna says, sounding indignant. “The Dewey class is wrong! Someone’s been mucking about with our cataloguing system!”

“Dewey?” 

“Dewey Decimal, sir. The standard library classification system, named after Melvil Dewey,” James points out. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, this book should be classified under Parapsycholgy and Occultism,” Lorna explains. “It would have a number beginning with 133.5. But this doesn’t.”

Robbie frowns, reading off the first few numbers on the spine. “601.12 — what does that mean?”

“That’s the class for applied science and technology. Specifically...” Lorna frowns, as if she’s trying to remember. “Forecasting.”

James snorts softly from behind Robbie. Git; he’s going to make Robbie laugh in a minute. 

“So how could that happen?” he asks, wishing that it wouldn’t be unprofessional to give his unruly sergeant a kick.

“I sincerely doubt that any of our staff would do it...” Lorna’s brows are furrowed. “Wait a minute, though... what’s the author’s name?”

“Thomas Keane,” Robbie reads off.

It’s obviously familiar to Lorna; she nods immediately. “He’s a local, and if I’m remembering correctly, the book was published by a private organisation rather than a reputable publisher.” She’s sounding unimpressed. “He donated a copy to our collection. It did actually have an ISBN number, so we were more or less obliged to take it. I’d have to check with the library assistants, but I am aware they’ve been finding a book inappropriately and persistently shelved in the wrong section. I can’t be certain, but I’d hazard a guess this is the one.” She hesitates, then adds, “Janet described it as ‘our local nutter’s ramblings’. Not the most professional way to talk about one of our users, but...”

“How would that number have got onto the book?” James asks. “Taken from another book, maybe?”

Lorna leans closer again; Robbie holds the spine out for her to see. “Ah. That’s not our typeface. The label’s also bigger than we use.” She gestures towards the nearest shelf. “See?”

Robbie looks; all the labels are a uniform size, and the typeface is distinctly different. “I think we’d better pay a visit to Mr Keane.”

* * *

It’s all very straightforward after that. Keane’s at his home and, while initially he tries to deny having been to the library, as soon as James points out that CCTV at the library entrance in the Westgate will prove his presence one way or the other he admits everything.

“It’s not right,” he protests, thoroughly aggrieved. “I donated my book to them. I deserve the right to say where it should be shelved. But they kept putting it back in the crackpot section. All I was doing was making sure it was shelved where it belongs.”

“And Mr Caldwell?” Robbie points out, tone icy. 

“It was none of his business, was it? I’d even made sure my book had the right code. He shouldn’t have interfered. Putting his dirty, shaky hands on _my_ book like that...”

Robbie thoroughly approves of the distaste in James’s eyes as he cuffs Keane and hands him over to the uniforms waiting outside. Keane can cool his heels in a cell overnight; he’s in no hurry to hear any more of the man’s ridiculous and offensive attempts to justify murder.

Outside, he catches James’s eye and raises an eyebrow. “Drink and a takeaway at mine?”

* * *

“You’ve been watching me.”

James’s voice, low-pitched, sends a shiver right through Robbie’s insides. They’ve finished eating and he’s pretending to watch Graham Norton, but now he turns slowly to look at his sergeant.

James wouldn’t have said anything unless he wanted to, Robbie knows. And if James were bothered by what he’d realised, he’d have tackled it very differently. The tone of voice he’s just used is one Robbie remembers vividly, from that time years earlier when James had phoned that sex-line to track down a murder suspect. It’d surprised him then. Now... he wants to hear that voice again and again, preferably in his bedroom.

If his reading of James is right, it might actually happen. 

“I have,” he admits, and there’s a huge sense of relief at getting it out in the open at last. “That a problem?”

James’s lips twitch. “Not for me. The question is... do you want to do more than watch?”

“Never been much into voyeurism,” Robbie comments, taking a sip of his ale. “As long as it’s all right with you.”

A warm hand curls around his. “Very all right.” Christ, if James had ever looked at him like this before, even for a second, Robbie wouldn’t have been torturing himself over what he’d thought were inappropriate feelings. “I thought I was going to have to resort to sabotaging your computer to get your attention,” James adds, sounding mildly sheepish. 

Robbie shakes his head with a fond grin, remembering James pressed against him behind his desk earlier. “Cheeky sod. An’ there I thought it was only me.”

James grins. “And you call yourself a detective.”

Robbie jabs the lad with his elbow. “I’m _detecting_ that you might’ve had too much to drink to drive home — an’ I’m seein’ in your future a night spent in me bed.”

A blond head lands on his shoulder. “Would that be a prediction based on science, or pseudoscientific nonsense?”

Robbie lets his head rest against James’s, and grips the lad’s hand in his. “Written in the stars, canny lad, written in the stars.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I know I have taken gross liberties with library processes here! While I do have an excellent source of information on how libraries work, in this case I was not able to ask. Therefore, my apologies to all librarians for any and all misrepresentations of the system.


End file.
